


Dinui

by Thalius



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Baby Yoda Charms Everyone, Family Angst, Family Fluff, Gen, Mandalorian Culture, Single Parent Life, post-Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: Din meets a nosy old woman in the market who won't stop trying to help him.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Baby Yoda
Comments: 23
Kudos: 359





	Dinui

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this lovely ask](https://oriyala.tumblr.com/post/616155139305340928/what-if-din-sees-a-little-grandma-knitting-on-her) on tumblr:
> 
> _"what if Din sees a little grandma knitting on her porch one day while out and about and asks very politely how to knit bc he wants to make his son a blanket. It not the best, is a bit lopsided, and baby yoda refuses to go to sleep without it."_

He knew he’d picked the wrong planet the moment they touched down. It was cold enough that his breath fogged his visor, and the humidity in the air promised heavy snows. Beyond the harsh climate, the only other thing it had to offer was spice stalls and bars. His knowledge of weapons markets were less than useless when trying to find a good place for domestic wares, so each shot in the dark was as good as any other. 

His instincts continued to prove him right after more than two hours of aimlessly wandering through the crowded bazaar and finding exactly zero items that would be useful—let alone safe—for an infant. He should’ve trusted his gut and passed into the next system.

“I knew it,” he said to the pack beside him on the curb, and two large, black eyes peered out from the protective flap overtop. The kid had been pretty quiet so far, but he knew he was getting hungry. Din was hungry, too. And he still hadn’t found so much as a cradle.

He sighed and turned back to watching the main thoroughfare; there was an endless stream of people moving in and out of the market, producing a constant, unpleasant chatter of dozens of overlapping conversations. It was busy enough that he went mostly unnoticed, a luxury that was soured by their failed shopping expedition. He’d wasted fuel and time getting here, and now he’d have to find work on this shitty planet to recoup what he could. The prospect of spending any more time here was deeply unappealing, and unless he found a miracle baby shop in the next forty minutes, he’d had to suck it up and deal with the weather.

He pulled the pack closer at the thought and heard the kid squeak at the jostling. He wanted to take him out and see how he was doing, but exposing him to the cold wouldn’t help. They’d need to go back to his ship to warm up, or—

“You,” said a craggy voice, and he looked up to find an old woman pointing a finger at him. She’d stepped out of the path of the crowd, and was maybe half his height, if that. She was also covered up head to toe in thick fabric, though her goggles were clear enough to see two large, dark orange eyes beneath them.

He set the pack on one of his legs and watched her as she approached, saying nothing.

“I’ve been watching you,” she told him, coming to a stop a few feet away. Seated on the curb as he was, they were eye level with one another. “Wandering through the bazaar.”

“Have you,” he said evenly.

“You and that child.” Her long, gloved finger moved down to point at the pack resting on his leg.

His free hand went to his sidearm. “It’s not for sale.”

She let out a scoff. “Relax, Mandalorian. I mean you no ill will. But you will freeze on this street if you stay there.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“How wise of you.” Her head tilted and she reached for the pack, her hand crooked in interest. “Such a small thing.”

He tucked the pack under his arm and stood up, watching her neck crane to follow him. 

“Have a good day,” he said brusquely, and began to move past her. 

Her hand smacked against the side of one of his cuisses, and her fingers wrapped around the plated edge, forcing him to look back down at her. Her grip was surprisingly strong—enough to keep him in place.

“What?” he demanded.

“You did not find what you sought in there,” she told him, indicating the bazaar with a nod.

His jaw worked. He wasn’t in the mood to have his failures repeated back at him. “Let go.”

“Of course,” she said, her tone cheery despite the muffle of her thick scarf. Her hand fell to her side, but her eyes did not leave the pack in his arm. “What was it you were looking for?”

He glanced at the street. A few people gave them passing looks, as they always did, but he didn’t see anyone stopping to watch them. 

“Why are you asking?” he said after a moment, and she laughed as if that were a ridiculous question.

“Am I not allowed to make conversation?”

He didn’t know what to say to that. With a reluctant sigh, and under the heavy scrutiny of her unwavering gaze, he decided to tell her the truth. “Supplies for the—the kid,” he said, nudging his arm in her direction.

“A mando with a new child under their wing,” she surmised, much to his annoyance. “A common problem.”

Bad decision. Bad decision to come here, bad decision to humour this strange old woman who spoke like she knew him. He thought about reaching for his blaster to get her to back off, but she hadn’t been deterred by it before. 

He shifted his weight, watching her watch him, waiting for a response. 

“If you’re done—”

“I am not,” she interrupted him. “I may help you, if you would listen to me.”

He tilted his helmet, feigning curiosity. “How is that?” 

“I am a weaver,” she told him seriously, either ignoring or not catching his tone. “I can craft you appropriate clothing for your child.”

Din suppressed the urge to tell her that her sales pitches were too long-winded if that were the case, instead considering her words. He had no reason to doubt her craft; he did, however, have every reason to doubt what the price of that craft would come to.

“What is it?” he asked, and her head cocked in confusion. “That you want,” he clarified. “You said you followed me through the bazaar.”

“Watched, not followed,” she replied. “I have no use for a Mandalorian.”

“Everyone has a use,” he countered. “And if not, then why fol—watch?”

“I don’t see many of you around any longer,” she told him. “I wanted to know if you were as you carry yourself to be.”

He felt a tremor come from the pack and tightened his hold on it. Ignoring the backhanded insult, he looked back down at her. “Look, I have to get somewhere warm—”

“You will come with me then,” she said forcefully, and turned with a wave of her hand. “Follow. I will give you what you need.”

She didn’t look back to see if he was following her. He looked down to the backpack, nudging the flap up with a finger just enough to look at the kid. He could see him trembling, and the hairs on his head stood on end. 

“What's one more bad decision,” he whispered, and the kid gave a shivering squeak.

* * *

The old woman led him to a complex of burrows on the outskirts of the city, all dug beneath the earth to hide from the biting winds. Even the street leading into the complex cut several feet below the ground, almost like a trench. He had to half-sidle along to follow her through the narrow, winding street, and with a frown he saw that the doors were all only a few feet tall.

“Crawl in,” she ordered, stopping at a door and yanking it open before promptly ducking inside. 

Din dropped to a knee and peered in. The den was much larger than he expected it to be, and more importantly, the ceiling looked high enough that he could stand in it. “Sure,” he murmured to no one. Shoving in leg-first, he awkwardly shimmied into her home and landed on his feet.

“Close it!” she snapped at him the instant he ducked inside, waving at the door, and he pulled the attached rope until it clattered shut. 

It was significantly warmer inside, so much so that the beads of condensation crystallised on the inside of his visor began to thaw out. He took a deep breath, and for the first time since landing, the air didn’t feel like it was piercing his lungs. 

“Sit down,” she said then, apparently not done giving orders. Her home was narrow, but it extended far back from the door. It was also incredibly cluttered, and every inch of available wall space was covered in tapestries. He could see a bed in the far corner, along with a small ablution plate and a spigot. Near the front was a low table with two seats around it, and its surface was covered with sewing implements. Everything inside was lit with a warm yellow hue, almost giving off the impression of summer sunlight. The overhanging light even radiated a considerable amount of heat, and he had to duck to avoid hitting it. 

“Sit,” she said again, less forceful this time, and he watched her remove her many layers of clothing. She tossed them haphazardly towards a small dresser, not caring that they piled up in a heap on the floor in front of it.

Din did as she said, sinking low to the ground to sit at the table. His knees protested the sharp angle, not helped by the cold, and he remedied that by leaning against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. 

Once she was finished removing her winter clothes, she moved over to a tiny gas stove with a large ventilator above it. He could see that she was fiddling with a kettle. 

“Your child,” she said, looking over her shoulder. Her voice was higher now, free from the cover of her scarf. “What does it eat?”

“He’s not picky,” he replied, setting the pack down on the table and opening the flap. The kid’s head poked out happily, his hands shimmying out from the blanket Din had wrapped around him to grab onto the hem. The kid still looked cold, but he was certain the pack was warmer than his still-frigid gear, so he left him in there.

“And you?”

“None for me, thank you.”

The old woman looked over at him again. “I know you are hungry. The cold always gnaws at your belly.”

“I’ll live.” He watched the kid look around, eyes wide at the new surroundings. 

The woman walked back to the table with two cups of tea and set one down in front of him. She also handed him a cup of instant broth before sitting down across from him.

“Feed him,” she said, “and then I will allow you to eat by yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, looking down at the cup. A headache had begun to form at his temples from hunger, and the broth smelled incredible. The kid whined by his arm, reaching for the cup, but he hesitated, looking back up at the woman.

“Oh,” she said, scoffing with a wave of her hand. “I would not harm a child, sir. It’s good to drink.”

“Rare quality in people these days,” he replied, but he found himself believing her anyway. After another moment of deliberation, he turned the cup over to the kid, who grabbed at it happily.

“And I know you are forbidden from showing your face,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “But I am not your enemy. You may eat in peace.”

“You seem to know a lot about Mandalorians,” he observed, supporting the bottom of the cup as the kid drank from it—and to make sure he didn’t hurt himself by drinking it all in go.

“I knew many. Before the purge,” she added, making him look up. “When  _ Mando’ade _ did not have to hide themselves from the world.”

Something deep in him ached at her words. He kept his eyes affixed to the kid, swallowing down the sudden thickness in his throat. “I see.”

She took a sip of her tea. “Much has changed. But your devotion to the care of children has not.”

“Is that why you’re helping me?”

“For many reasons,” she said, smiling. “But that is one of them, yes.”

They were quiet then; her with her tea, the kid with his broth. Din’s own cup sat unattended by his vambrace, the steam wafting up from the earthy-smelling liquid as if calling to him. So much of him was sore from the cold—it was a reminder why he avoided icy planets.  _ Stupid decision. _

The kid finished off his cup quickly, letting out a sigh of contentment. Colour brushed his cheeks and ears as warmth returned to him. “You mentioned,” Din began, clearing his throat. “You had something for him.”

“Much, yes,” she said, and with a sweeping gesture she pulled his attention to the opposite wall, covered in countless tapestries, made up of dozens of different materials. “Proper fabric that will keep out the cold.”

“How much?” he asked, impressed by the sight. Her hunched back and strong, gnarled fingers was more than enough to tell him that these had all been woven by hand, and the craftsmanship was impeccable.

“They are not for sale,” she replied, and he looked back at her in confusion. Her smile grew. “I will show you how to make one.”

He held back a sigh. “I’m grateful, but—”

“That is my price,” she interrupted him again. “I have no one else to pass this gift onto.”

“I can’t stay here for that long,” he told her, setting the kid’s cup down on the table. “I need work.”

“This is work.”

“That’s not—”

“You will learn this,” she said forcefully. There was a desperate twinge in her voice, and in her wrinkled, weathered expression. “You must. I am a good teacher, and you seem smart enough. You will stay here, with your boy, and I will show you this gift.”

“I can’t stay here,” he repeated again, trying to control his frustration. “You said you know a lot about Mandalorians. I can’t cohabit with you. I’m sorry,” he added almost as an afterthought, surprising himself. It certainly wasn’t an apology for his Creed. But her loneliness was uncomfortably familiar, and he found himself ashamed at turning away from her offer.

She looked down at herself, closing her eyes and taking a measured breath. The shawl covering her head shifted at the movement, exposing a thick twine of grey hair that ended in a braid. 

“I understand,” the woman whispered quietly. She pulled at the collar of her shirt and dug inside then, pulling out a strip of thick leather from around her neck. Hanging on one end were many beads and stones; among them was a chunk of beskar, forged into the shape of a mythosaur.

“I understand this because I was one,” she continued, looking up and holding out the necklace for him to see. The sorrow in her eyes bore straight into his soul. “I am  _ dar’manda _ now. But I will make up for it however I can. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” he whispered back.

* * *

For three days he stayed in the woman’s home. She shared her name with him; more importantly, she shared how she came to retire here.

“A careless fight,” she began on the first night, her words slurred slightly from drink. He abstained from the alcohol, but happily accepted her food. “I was desperate and stupid, wanting to prove myself.” 

He tried not to devour his meal. Even with her confession, he still found himself ducking away from her, hiding his face out of reflex, but the luxury of sharing a meal with someone was one he couldn’t bear to pass up—even with a  _ mando’ad  _ who no longer walked the Path.

She was quiet for a moment, then laughed bitterly. “You never expect how underwhelming the end will be,  _ vod. _ We fancy only the most catastrophic of circumstances in which we lose ourselves. It is arrogance. A boy half my age ripped my soul from me in a fight that lasted seventy seconds, and now I am here, weaving blankets to sell in the market. Now I am only Moli; my clan name is gone.”

He absorbed her words, trying to find what to say. Trying not to let it eat at him.  _ “Ni ceta,”  _ he said eventually, and looked up from his bowl to see her laugh.

“Do not grovel. It is not your fault. But it’s good to hear the Tongue again. If you would humour me?”

“Of course,” he replied, this time in Mando’a, and she gave him a smile that finally reached her eyes.

In fact, he spoke more Mando’a to her than he had in a long time. Not since fleeing from Nevarro, he realised. Not since the covert had been purged. That seemed like another lifetime ago.

She also took a deep interest in his armour. With the time and space to attend to it now, he spent the rest of the first evening cleaning it as best he could. She did not insult him by offering to help clean it, but she watched his ministrations attentively, her eyes shining with old memories.

“It is unpainted,” she observed.

“It’s a new set,” he told her. “I haven’t had the time.”

“And your old set?”

“Red, mostly,” he said, and tapped one of his cuisses—the one the Armourer had fused with an old plate. “I’ll probably take up the colour again.”

She nodded. “A good choice.”

“What was yours?” he asked, holding up his breastplate to the light to inspect it.

_ “Kebiin,” _ she whispered, her tone reverent. “A deep blue.”

“A good choice,” he echoed, and she looked away from his armour, using the kid as an excuse to occupy her thoughts while he worked.

The kid himself took to Moli instantly, as he did with most people. She was delighted by his presence, spoiling him with affection and asking an endless stream of questions that Din never knew how to answer.

“I don’t know what he is,” he confessed on the second day, watching her hands work as she demonstrated how to weave thread together tightly enough that it became waterproof. It put his rudimentary sewing skills to shame. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“A curious thing,” she said, smiling down at the kid seated in her lap. “But more content than any baby I have ever met.”

He smiled softly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” 

“You have not named yet either,” she stated, not really a question. There was no judgement in her tone, only curiosity.

“Nothing feels right,” he replied honestly, watching his hands struggle to loop the thread together. “And he may already have a name.”

“It is a lovely honour, to name a child,” she said, swaying slightly in place to rock the kid. “An even great one to find that name together.”

He nodded, watching the kid watch her hands move with wide eyes. Where Din fumbled, she excelled, her fingers working so quickly it was difficult to know where the fabric ended and she began. 

“Relax your hands,” she instructed then, holding her own up as an example. “And your shoulders. You are too tense.”

He frowned back down at the fabric in his hands. At the mess he was making. Field patches he had no problem with; this was a whole other universe. She was trying to teach him how to make art.

“Are you sure you can teach me this?” he asked, and her hands stilled. “I'm not trying to—I’m grateful. But it must take years to perfect, and I don’t have a lot of spare time to devote to this once I leave.”

“It does take years.” She continued to weave. “But I made a vow to pass this on, and there is no better apprentice than a fellow  _ vod.” _

He made no more complaints after that. She was housing and feeding them; she was speaking to him in Mando’a, a pleasure for him as much as it was for her. He would humour this woman, and do so gracefully.

In truth, the rest was welcome, despite the lessons; he hadn’t had the luxury of a proper rest since their fight with Gideon. So much of him still ached, injuries on top of injuries that had never truly healed. The last several weeks had been especially harrowing, perhaps the most daunting in his life, and he was not a young man any longer. 

And so he spent as much time sleeping as he did learning to weave; Moli cared for the kid, and he had blissful, ten-hour brackets of uninterrupted sleep. Her home was not built to house two people, but he made do with sleeping on her floor. He’d slept on much worse in the past few days alone.

On the third day he’d managed to sew together a small, simple square of fabric; not anything a fully-grown adult could use, but more than enough for a small child. In the same time, Moli made a waterproof jumper, boots, and mitts for the kid, all perfectly woven and threaded through with a thick braided pattern. 

“That’s a clan emblem,” he said on the third morning, watching her tie off the final mitten. She looked up and smiled.

“It was my own,” she replied, nodding. “Far less exciting than your mudhorn. I hope you’ll excuse the indulgence.”

He laughed quietly, and paused to sip at his tea. “If anyone is being indulgent, it’s me.”

“You are not indulgent. You are growing old. The rest is necessary,” she said, giving him a knowing grin. “I’m grateful to give you the space to relax.”

“Let me give you something in return,” he said, setting his cup down. The kid was in his other arm, still not fully awake. “If not money, then work. Everyone has use for a Mandalorian,” he repeated, his mouth quirking.

“Indeed, but you’ve given me enough already.” She nodded to the kid. “He will be warm, if nothing else. And you know this gift, now.”

“You keep calling it that.” He sat down on the floor next to her, suppressing a groan at the strain on his knee. “Why?”

She looked away from him, fiddling with the mitten. It was complete, but she pulled at the fabric, evening out any tight threads. 

“It was gifted to me,” she whispered in Mando’a. Her words were so quiet he had to lean forward to hear her. “By my own child, long ago. They are with the oversoul now, but….” She swallowed, and pressed the mitten to her mouth, as if to kiss it. Her eyes fell closed and she let out a shaky breath. “But this gift is yours to pass on. May you return it to them one day.”

He was silent. The kid squirmed in his lap, and he set him down on the floor to let him waddle over to Moli. Cooing softly, he reached up for her, and she took him into her arms with a tearful laugh. 

Unable to offer anything nearly as profound as that, he looked back at his own uneven, small blanket, folded up neatly on her table, and thought he finally understood.

* * *

It took another two weeks to find a cradle. Two weeks and a lot more money than he was comfortable with exchanging, but it came with an actual baby toy, which was a significant step up from the ball bearing and collection of stones from Sorgan’s hot springs that constituted the kid’s current playset. 

He watched the kid play with it now as he ate what was left of their leftovers from the cantina. It was a simple woolen doll, with wooden beads sewn onto the end of each limb. The kid clacked them together over and over again, endlessly amused by the clapping motion of the toy.

“You’re too expensive,” Din told him, making the kid look up. “Keep it up and you’ll have to find a job.”

The kid babbled in reply, clacking the doll at him and completely oblivious to the harsh realities of living on the frontier. Well, perhaps not completely; he was swathed in the awkward blanket Din had made with Moli, his jumpers all currently soaking to get out the mud stains. He wouldn’t be letting the kid roam around on his own for a while again.

He looked at the small tub on the deck beside him, full of soapy water. Maybe the kid understood a lot more than he realised.

He got up from the table, leaving his plate for now, and scooped the kid up from the deck. He cooed happily at the attention, and Din walked him over to the new cradle, settling him inside. It was a lot more comfortable than sleeping next to him on the bed; the only problem was keeping the kid in it.

He began untangling the blanket around him when the kid squeaked in protest, his tiny hands digging into the fabric. “It’s too thick,” Din informed him, seemingly to no avail. “You do this every night. You’ll overheat.”

The kid stared up at him, and he swore there was a challenge in his eyes. He could sense the kid’s tenacity, even without the noises of protest.

He sighed. “Fine.”

They eventually settled on a compromise; Din tucked the blanket beside the kid and covered him up with a much thinner one, and that plus the new toy clutched in his grasp appeased him enough that he quickly fell asleep.

When the kid was properly tucked in, he stripped down to his sleeping clothes and crawled into his bed, pulling the cradle up by the foot of it. He usually woke up and found the kid inexplicably tucked into his side and sleeping soundly, and gambled that he probably would again the next morning. He didn’t mind, exactly, but he was afraid of rolling over onto him in his sleep.

“You have everything anyone has ever made or bought for you,” he whispered up to the ceiling of his bunk, blinking in the dark. When he got no response from the cradle, he closed his eyes and settled into his own bed.

Moli’s face was waiting there for him as he drifted. He dreamt of her; he dreamt of the child she’d lost, a formless figure he would never know the name or face of; he dreamt of the tapestries hanging on her walls. He dreamt of blue beskar. They were uneasy dreams—everything was brushed with a deep melancholy. If he wanted to court the more immaterial parts of his faith, he would’ve thought they were bound somehow, sharing in the great grief of the oversoul, no matter how damaged her connection to it was. It was the least lonely he’d felt in a long time.

When he woke in the morning and found the kid still sleeping soundly in the cradle, he knew it was more than thread that she’d gifted him.


End file.
